So that not only egotism, but experience, bade her look to her own
conduct for some explanation of the chilly little mist that had been
between them for twenty-four hours.

As soon as the drawing-room door closed behind her she ran up-stairs like
a girl. There was no light in his study, and she went on into his
bedroom. He was lying on the sofa; he had taken off his coat, and his
arms were clasped under his head; he was smoking a long cigar. To find
him idle was unusual. His was not a contemplative nature; a trade
journal or a detective novel were the customary solace of odd moments
like this.

He did not move as she entered, but he turned his eyes slowly and
seriously upon her. His eyes were black. He was a very dark man, with a
smooth, brown skin and thick, fine hair, which clung closely to his
broad, rather massive head. He was clean shaven, so that, as Adelaide
loved to remember a friend of his had once suggested, his business
competitors might take note of the stern lines of his mouth and chin.

She came in quickly, and shut the door behind her, and then dropping on
her knees beside him, she laid her head against his heart. He put out his
hand, touched her face, and said:

"Take off this veil."

The taking off of Adelaide's veil was not a process to be accomplished
ill-advisedly or lightly. Lucie, her maid, had put it on, with much
gathering together and looking into the glass over her mistress's
shoulder, and it was held in place with shining pins and hair-pins. She